The merchants led the way through Aldaan's narrow streets, stopping before a stone building where the smell of blood and woodsmoke hung in the air.
A chopping block stood beneath a wooden awning, hooks hanging from heavy beams overhead while rows of salted hides dried along a fence. A stout man in a leather apron looked up from skinning a goat as the wagon rolled into his yard.
"What have you brought me now?" he called, wiping his hands on his apron.
One merchant pointed toward the rear of the wagon.
The butcher stepped closer, his expression changing immediately. "...By every saint."
He circled the carcass, running thick fingers across one of the ridged plates along its back before crouching beside the shoulder wound. "A Jursen..." He looked toward the merchants. "You killed one?"
"She and her companion," a merchant answered, gesturing toward Eren.
The butcher stood, letting out a slow whistle. "I've only dressed one before."
"Can you buy it?"
The question drew an awkward laugh. "Buy it?" He looked almost offended by the idea. "I couldn't."
He slapped the hide with the back of his hand. "This alone is worth more than I have in my lockbox." His fingers traced one of the hardened dorsal ridges. "And a leatherworker would fight another for these."
"What about the meat?" a merchant asked.
The butcher gave them a look. "You've never eaten Jursen?"
They shook their heads.
"Then you're in for a surprise." He patted the carcass. "Look at the marbling. It could feed this village twice over."
Silence settled for a moment before Eren spoke. "So... what happens now?"
The butcher rubbed his chin. "I can't pay you. No one here can." He looked toward the village beyond the fence. "But letting it spoil would be criminal."
One of the merchants folded his arms. "What if we help?"
The butcher looked at him.
"We have salt," the merchant added. "And oil."
"I have cloth nobody bought in Reka," another said.
The butcher considered the idea. "If you have enough salt, I can preserve most of it before morning." His attention shifted back to Eren. "I'll take payment in work."
She frowned. "I don't understand."
"I butcher it, salt it, and smoke what can be smoked," he explained with a shrug. "In return, I keep a portion of the meat and the ridges. They're worth more to me than coin."
One merchant nodded. "And our share?"
"The rest," the butcher continued, gesturing toward the village, "I'll sell. Not for silver—nobody around here has silver to spare. They'll bring grain, eggs, firewood. Whatever they can. By tomorrow evening half the village will have eaten better than they have all year." He looked back at Eren. "And you'll leave with whatever coin the village can spare. It won't be much, but it'll be honest."
Eren thought about it, calculating the time and their supplies. "We need travel rations first. Salted meat for three days, wrapped tight for the road."
"Done," the butcher said simply. "I'll carve off the best cut of the flank for you and your partner before I touch the rest."
"And the hide?" Eren asked.
"I'll scrape and roll it," the butcher added. "You'll get far better money selling it somewhere larger. Keleushila, or the capital. Anywhere with armorers."
One merchant laughed. "Funny. A few hours ago we couldn't even move the thing, and now we're discussing how to sell every piece."
The butcher smiled. "Waste is expensive. Especially when you've already done the dangerous part."
The butcher rubbed his hands together and looked toward the merchants. "Help me get it onto the block before the flies discover it."
The merchants climbed onto the wagon while Eren steadied the carcass from below. Between the five of them, they managed to slide the Jursen onto the heavy timber table with a dull thud that made the legs creak beneath the weight.
The butcher circled it once more, deciding where the first cuts would go. "I'll need more salt."
"I have two sacks," one merchant said.
"And I'll fetch more wood for the smokehouse," another added.
The butcher nodded. "Good."
He disappeared into the building, returning with a sharpening stone and drawing it slowly along a skinning knife. The steady scrape carried beyond the yard.
Curious faces soon appeared beyond the fence. Two children stopped first, peering between the rails.
"That's not a pig."
"It has tusks."
"I know what it is," the older boy whispered with confidence. "It's a Jursen."
His younger companion stared. "No, it isn't."
"It is. My grandfather told me about them."
The younger boy looked at the carcass again, then at the butcher. "...Can we eat those?"
The butcher overheard without looking up. "If your mother can spare a few coppers tonight, you just might."
The boys' eyes widened. Before another word could be spoken, both turned and ran back toward the village.
It didn't take long. The baker's wife was the first adult to arrive, flour dusting her sleeves. "I heard you've acquired a Jursen."
"So have I," the butcher answered.
A farmer wandered in behind her, wiping his hands on his trousers. "I thought the children were making it up."
"They usually are."
"This time they weren't." The farmer let out a low whistle. "I haven't seen one since I was a boy."
Another villager appeared, then another. They remained outside the yard, speaking in quiet voices while trying to catch a glimpse over one another's shoulders.
"Is it true?"
"They killed it on the south road."
"Mercenaries, they said."
"I heard there were four of them."
"No, three."
"I heard the horse survived."
"My brother says the hide alone is worth more than this house."
The story grew with every retelling.
Before long, the tavern keeper arrived, breathing harder than the walk deserved. He looked at the carcass. "...Well. I suppose I know what I'm serving tonight."
The butcher looked up. "If you have enough onions."
"I always have onions."
"And ale."
"I certainly have ale."
The two men nodded to one another with the understanding of craftsmen who had solved similar problems before.
By evening, smoke drifted from the butcher's curing shed. Someone had carried benches into the square, and the tavern's windows stood open despite the cooling air. Children ran through the streets announcing that everyone was having Jursen for supper. Old women argued over how to season meat they had not tasted in twenty years, while farmers arrived carrying eggs, barley, and bundles of firewood tucked beneath their arms.
No one complained about payment. They brought what they could.
The butcher accepted each offering with a nod before directing another portion toward his chopping block. For one evening, Aldaan forgot about poor harvests, worn boots, and broken fences.
There would be enough. Not forever—just for tonight.